This Love is Madness
by Wilhelmina Willoughby
Summary: Percabeth. Falling in love isn't the hardest fall. A collection of drabbles that follow Percy and Annabeth throughout their relationship, from the beginning to the end.
1. Prayers

_A/N: So this is just a collection of drabbles that focus mostly on Percy and Annabeth. They're not all related or in any kind of order. I post them as I write them on my tumblr, **suchastart. **Hope you enjoy!_

_Mina :)_

* * *

**Prayers**

The months that Percy is gone are spent in a kind of disbelieving, frenetic haze. Annabeth searches for him during the day, pouring over maps and books and pages upon pages that lie open on her laptop, waiting for updates, but there's no trace of a tall, ocean-eyed man-boy who can control the seas and talk to horses. She tosses drachma upon drachma into rainbows, speaks to people and creatures that she and Percy have helped on their quests, begs for news—any kind of news, good or bad—but there is nothing. He has vanished. Gone.

She doesn't believe it.

Percy and Grover have an empathy link, one that has grown dull and empty, one that has not been severed, so they know that something odd has happened. It's not surprising; something _odd _seems to happen to them every so often, something that forces them to save the world, over and over, something that makes them hate their parents a little bit more each time. And though she and Percy don't share any kind of link the way he and Grover do, she's convinced that she'd know. If something terrible had happened to Percy, she would know.

So she looks for him. She takes quests that allow her to go beyond the camp's borders, scours news stories that might have anything to do with demigods or monsters, loiters around the Big House in hopes that a messenger might deliver word of Percy, her stupid Seaweed Brain.

And at night, she sneaks into his cabin, slips under his sheets, and prays.

Her father has his God—singular He—despite knowing of her gods. He has a leather-bound Bible on his bookshelf, pages worn down, given to him by his grandfather. Annabeth isn't sure if it's a belief built from familiarity or something he holds on to in respect and remembrance, but she recalls times that she's seen him before meals or going to bed, head bowed, lips murmuring silent words she couldn't catch. Prayers, words sent up in thanks and appreciation and devotion.

There aren't any prayers that she knows, or gods that she might pray to that would help. She pulls Percy's covers up around her shoulders and rests her head on his pillow—_his_ pillow, that smells more of her than it does him, now—and thinks of her mother, too wise, too knowing, too detached from the whipping fever of human emotion. Has her mother ever known the heartache of missing someone lost? Has she ever wished with all of her being to just have one person, one thing, with her again?

Annabeth doesn't cry. She closes her eyes and breathes deep the smell of sea water and worn wood and fraying, tested rope and thinks of him. She is going to find him. She just needs a little help. A clue, a hint, something that might guide her towards the right path. Something out in the world knows where Percy is—_please, _she thinks, wishes, _please, help me bring him back._


	2. Whispered

**Whispered**

The first time she tells Percy that she loves him, they're crouched behind a cluster of boulders in the woods, playing Capture the Flag. It's hardly what might be considered the appropriate time—they are sweaty and battle-worn, covered in mud, and she's pretty sure Clarisse is waiting somewhere nearby, ready to ambush them, but Annabeth looks at Percy and feels her breath expand in her chest. It's warm. Almost giddy.

There's a smear of dirt stretching the whole right side of his profile. His nose is bloodied, his hair wet and slicked against his head. He's attractive, in a technical way—she can appreciate the long line of his nose, his jaw, his even, sun-tanned skin. But because she knows him, knows his fierce loyalty, his fear of letting his friends down, his humor and sarcasm and strength—because she was there when he woke in this new world and stood by his side against gods and monsters and Titans—because she knows how it feels to lie beside him in the grass and hold his hand—she sees how beautiful he is, to his heart.

"Hey," she says, knocking her knuckles against his arm.

Percy turns his ear toward her, his eyes trained to the trees. The woods are silent and still but that does not mean their friends aren't out there, looking for the flag. Winners of this game don't have any chores for a week. It's no wonder Percy's focused.

"Hey," Annabeth says again. She takes hold of his arm and tugs. When he finally turns to her and tilts his head, impatient, eyes narrowed at her stillness, she smiles. She is so full of pride at the person he has become—a hero, he is a hero, a son of Poseidon, _hers_—and she wants to pull his face to hers and kiss him until her lips sting, so she does.

When they part, his grin is sideways and goofy, happy. There's a faint rustle somewhere to her right. Percy is no longer paying attention to anything but her.

"Definitely not complaining," Percy says, resting his hand on her knee. "You know, we probably have a few minutes."

And the way he looks at her, like she's it, like she's the only person he ever needs or wants to look at ever again—she can't hold the words in. "I love you," she says, hand gripping the hilt of her dagger tight. She hadn't thought about what might happen after.

His face is blank, eyes slowly widening. "I—"

And then Clarisse, with her impeccable timing, stomps through the brush, spear in hand, and runs towards them. Percy pushes Annabeth to the side, and she rolls to her feet as Percy takes the brunt of Clarisse's attack, Riptide held high against Charisse's charged spear. Annabeth has just enough time to smirk at Clarisse before the enemy backup arrives, surrounding them, weapons drawn. She and Percy move, gradually, back-to-back, and it's the most natural feeling, the heat of him against her, the confidence that he will be there, always, even when outnumbered.

"I'll take her lackeys, you take Clarisse," Percy says, turning to drop a kiss to her cheek. His eyes are bright and smiling and waiting. "And then we'll talk."


	3. Life

**Life**

There is another universe out there where he is with Annabeth and they are happy. Maybe they have a small apartment in the city, one with a broken radiator and age-blurred windows and floorboards that creak when they walk from room to room. It is filled with used and comfortable furniture found at flea markets, worn blankets from his childhood, books upon books on sturdy shelves that line the walls like art. Weapons rest on the same shelves as their DVDs and candles; nectar and ambrosia wait in their pantry next to cereal boxes and crackers. It is a confused mess of two worlds smashed together, and sometimes he gets overwhelmed thinking about the dual lives they try to lead, but it is theirs, all of it. It is home.

Here, Annabeth curls up on the couch with her sketchbooks and fills pages with her dreams of towering columns and gables, fountains and statues and gardens. Here, Percy leans back and flips through the channels on the television, rubbing circles into the cold soles of Annabeth's feet, kicked up into his lap.

Here, they sit on the kitchen floor at three in the morning and eat pasta from the pan, take long gulps from the same bottle of wine. They can laugh about certain things, now, talk in low voices about others—like Thalia, Bianca di Angelo, Charlie and Silena, Luke. They talk about their parents, about Olympus, about what might come next. Percy plays with the fingers on Annabeth's left hand and thinks about the ring he's stashed at the bottom of their closet. It's slim, silver, with an inlay of pearlescent coral, and he starts to sweat every time he thinks about it. Annabeth, oblivious, as far as he knows, leans over to kiss him. She takes like wine and chapstick and he can't look away.

Here, they sleep in until noon and shower until the water runs cold. Here, they come back from quests scratched and bleeding and exhausted, patch their wounds, fall into bed and fall into each other until the night is impossible to resist. They get take-out and invite Grover and Clarisse and Will over, try to keep the Stoll twins from breaking everything they own, hope that Rachel doesn't succumb to any prophecies that might throw their lives into more chaos.

Here, they build something they hadn't known possible. They still search for new demigods, visit camp, take occasional trips to Olympus, and fight monsters on the way to dinner, but these things gradually become parts of their everyday lives, their new normal.

There exists this other universe, somewhere, where he is with Annabeth and they are happy. Percy does not know what this place is like, but as he and Annabeth fall through open darkness, Tartarus waiting to catch them somewhere far below, he feels this other life press an ache against his chest. He misses it. He misses the warmth of their place in the summer, the slick slide of Annabeth's skin against his as they lie in bed, the way her candles light a fire in her eyes and make the rooms smell like vanilla and sugar.

He misses a place he has never been, a life he has never lived, but he is here, with her. They are together. And wherever they are headed, that will have to be enough.


	4. Anchor

**Anchor**

As the _Argo II_ speeds towards Kansas, Topeka 32, and whatever awaits them there, Annabeth lies in her bunk and tries to sleep. She knows she needs to, especially now, after finally starting their quest, but she can't get her thoughts to slow.

She's found Percy—and he remembers her. The prophesied Seven are finally together, a group she hadn't exactly expected, a group with a lot of extra baggage. Their journey to Rome has begun. The ship needs repairs. Her mother's quest sits at the back of her mind, always, like a persistent tick attached to her brain. Leo doesn't look her in the eye. A chill tingles across her spine…

Annabeth throws back her blanket and gets out of bed. Fresh air. Fresh air will help.

She pulls open her door and pokes her head into the hall. Coach Hodge stopped banging around about three hours ago, and she can hear his bleating snores trying to escape from his room, but that doesn't mean he hasn't rigged some kind of system to wake him when his demigod charges are sneaking around after curfew. She wants to scoff—they are several thousand feet in the air, on a flying Greek trireme, sailing to what feels like their deaths. What does he think they're going to do? Jump ship?

(That might not be out of the question, considering.)

But no doors open, nobody comes out, nothing happens at all as she moves quietly down the hallway and makes her way up the stairs. She thinks about waking Percy, but he needs to sleep more than he needs to sit outside with her. They've had a long day.

She steps onto the deck, a cool wind pulling goosebumps to her bare arms. There is no sound to the night besides the ship moving beneath her. She walks to the railing, splintered now after the hiccup in New Rome. The _Argo II_ really is an amazing piece of work, and to look at it now, falling to pieces, she hurts for Leo.

She shivers again. She's not entirely sure it has to do with the cold.

Deciding that it's better not to have the sniffles while she's trying to prepare for battle with Mother Nature, Annabeth sits on the railing next the main control panel for the ship and near Festus, still warm even as a dragon's head. It's on autopilot so that Leo can get few hours of sleep. He's insisted that it's safe, but Annabeth would rather be nearby. Just in case.

For a while, she enjoys watching the stars, catching low-hanging cloud vapor between her fingers. It's a nice night, the moon sitting up high, lighting their way; the land stretching wide beneath them.

And for a while, she allows herself to be cold, to be still. There is no telling when she will be able to have another few minutes to herself like this. Of all the quests she's been a part of, all of the prophecies, not one has felt so suffocating—she must try to be a leader on this team and help to save the world from Gaea, all while trying to find the Mark of Athena and also save her mother. It is both everything and nothing like holding up the sky. The pressure in her chest is crushing.

"Up all alone?"

Annabeth's heart jerks. She leans backwards, grips the railing so she doesn't slip off the edge of the ship, and turns to glare at Percy, who stands at the mouth of the stairs with his hands in his pockets, sheepish. Shirtless. Not that she's staring. "Festus and I were spending some time together," she says, feeling her face soften as he walks up to her and she can see his messy hair and drawn eyes. "He's the only one on this boat who doesn't talk so much."

Percy shrugs, leaning against the rail and resting his head against her arm. He yawns. They spend a quiet minute looking out at the world before he says, "I don't know. Jason's a pretty quiet guy."

"He's spent most of the time you've known him unconscious."

"Yeah." He grins at her. "I like that about him."

She can't help but laugh. It's brief. Jason, son of Jupiter, strength of his camp. "He's good, Percy."

"Yeah." This time he sighs. It's weary, heavy, and after he jumps up to sit next to her on the railing, their feet swinging free, his shoulders sink. He opens his mouth to say something else, closes it, then just stares at her. The moon is behind him and the angle of light casts his face in shadow. He knows what she's thinking—about their new team, about the camps and Hera, about Gaea.

And so she asks: "How are we supposed to do this?"

He shakes his head. He reaches up to rest his hand on her neck, his thumb brushing her cheek. "I just want to kiss you."

"Percy, come on," she says, but closes her eyes, anyway. Just a few minutes. She can have just a few minutes with him after spending months searching. He's here, and he remembers her, and that's all she's wanted for what feels like a long, long time.

_Breathe, Annabeth._

She leans in and kisses him, runs her hands through his sleep-messy hair, feels the knot in her chest relax and unravel like a tight ball of string cut loose. Percy's hands are warm against her face, her neck, her arms and back and legs, and as much as he's her anchor, he can still make her feel adrift, lost in how much she desperately needs him, loves him. It's not wise at all, this connection, this piece of her dependent on him. She can hear her mother's voice, sane, whispering,_He's a son of Poseidon, my child; he will only leave you to the sea. _But she pulls back, frames his face with her hands, those ocean-green eyes bright, and laughs.

"I missed you."


	5. Restless

**Restless**

The baby is pushing right against a tight nerve in her back. It's not the worst pain, but it's annoying and awkward and keeping her up. Sooner or later her twisting around trying to find a comfortable position is going to wake Percy, and then they'll both be miserable. They've had a long enough day as it is.

So Annabeth struggles to push herself out of the bed. She ends up rolling, then sliding the rest of the way to her feet. Dumb belly. It's _massive_.

Quietly, she makes her way (waddles; she waddles now) out of the bedroom, steps down the hall to the dark sitting room. She could read, or draw, or mess around with designs on Daedalus's laptop, or do some cleaning up in the kitchen. She could pretend to be a little productive. Or she could sit in her armchair and just enjoy the last month of silence she's going to get for a long, long time.

That sounds like the best option.

She makes herself a glass of juice and leans back into her chair, pulling the throw blanket over her legs. The night outside the window is clear. Stars dot the dark dome of the sky, and Annabeth finds Orion straight ahead, the three stars for his belt, the long stretch of his arm. The Hunter. She can't help but think of Thalia. She hasn't been to Camp for months. Is she safe? Has she heard about Annabeth's pregnancy? Would she laugh or be disappointed or—?

The worry is heavy. Most of their friends or family had been excited. Sally had been beyond the moon, when they'd told her; grinning at any given moment, touching Annabeth's stomach, going on about how excited she was—her first grandchild!—and how it was great timing, with Annabeth just out of college and Percy taking a directing spot at Camp. Reactions like that make Annabeth just a bit more certain that this is a good thing, that this is meant to happen.

But her mother hadn't been as thrilled. Annabeth wasn't particularly surprised; Athena had never totally warmed up to Percy. She was pleasant enough, the few times they all came in contact, but it wasn't a warm, familial relationship between them. It was clear that Athena had a begrudging respect for Percy, tolerated him because Annabeth loved him, and was engaged to marry him, and was carrying his child.

It was a lot stacked against Athena. Kind of made it clear he'd be around for a while.

So Athena knows. Poseidon knows. He sent a beautiful bassinet made of coral and fossilized sea kelp, embedded pearls and seashells. It currently sits in the corner, waiting for its occupant, waiting for Percy and Grover and everybody he has helping him to finish the extra room they've had to add to the cottage. The note that was attached read, "To my newest grandson or granddaughter. Blessings lie ahead."

Blessings. Annabeth hopes so. She sits her juice on the windowsill and leans back, closes her eyes. The baby kicks against her hand as she rubs circles onto her belly. Strong, sure kicks. Sign of a fighter. She's in love with her child already, totally and completely, but there are just a few times, like now, that she'd like to not be expecting.

Gradually she falls asleep humming a lullaby she's never heard before, one that sounds like Ancient Grecian music, one that sounds, in her head, oddly familiar. It soothes both Annabeth and the baby like magic.

When she wakes, sunshine pouring into the room, Percy's moving around in the kitchen, trying (failing) to be silent. At one point he drops a frying pan and curses, looking over to the sitting room with wide eyes. He sighs when he sees she's awake. "Sorry," he mumbles, picking up the pan. He places it on the counter and walks over, kneels in front of her. "I was trying to make you breakfast."

"Appreciate the thought." She sits up and pushes her arms into the air, as high as she can, and it's a relief when her joints pop and something in her back lets go. It feels like warm water rushing through her spine. She melts. "Ahhh."

"Baby keep you up?"

Annabeth nods, then holds out her hands so Percy can help her up. It nags at her, being so dependent, but it's better than the struggle—and now that Percy does it automatically and she doesn't have to _ask_ for help, that kind of makes it easier. "For a while," she says, leaning her forehead into his chest, trying not to moan as he massages the small of her back. "I think… I think Mom helped. I heard this song in my head, so I hummed along, and it calmed the baby enough so that we could both sleep."

"That was nice of her."

Annabeth nods. Maybe it's not too hopeless, with her mother. Maybe it'll just take small steps to get there—baby steps. She snorts. "Baby steps," she says, dissolving into giggles.

Percy laughs. "That's pretty bad, Wise Girl."

The baby kicks again, wiggles around—agreeing with Percy, she supposes. Already his or her father's pet. "You aren't both allowed to gang up on me," she tells them, standing straight. Percy's hands go to her belly, his palms warm and wide, and she smiles. Her little family.


	6. Accusation

**Accusation**

There's something to the air in the underworld that slows their fall, something that makes it feel like being dropped into water, something that smells like rotting flesh and sulfur and burning, but that doesn't mean hitting the ground doesn't hurt. Pain slices into every part of her body. Her breath leaves her. She blacks out.

Later, when she blinks awake, it's dark. She can move—slowly, so slowly, because it feels like her bones are ready to shatter—and she reaches out to find a rough rock wall at her left. A cave. Besides the far-off sounds of screaming and her own uneven breathing, it's quiet. As her eyes adjust, she squints into the darkness, finds herself in an empty dome-shaped hollow. Not a prisoner, then. Not yet.

Tartarus.

Annabeth stifles a moan.

It's her fault. It's all her fault. Why hadn't she just cut the damned webbing? It would've been easy—a few slices with her dagger, tossing it to the side, stepping free. The Athena Parthenon could've waited a few seconds for her to cut herself loose. She and Percy could've been with the others right now, sailing toward Camp Half Blood, toward home.

And now, she doesn't even know where Percy is, she doesn't have a weapon, and they have just a few days to make it through the worst prison imaginable to find the Doors of Death.

The logistics of it all are dizzying. She allows herself to cry for few moments more. If she wraps her arms around her knees and pulls herself in tight, she can almost pretend to be somewhere else, can almost convince herself that this is just a disgustingly convincing nightmare. What are they going to do? Arachne's out there somewhere with a grudge. Typhon, Gigantes, Titans; all of their old enemies. There are no resources. No backup.

They don't stand a chance. They are going to die down here.

There's a shuffle behind her. Heart thumping, Annabeth turns as best she can, sees Percy stumble into the cave and drop to his knees.

"Percy," she gasps, crawling to him. His arm is shredded, and in the dim, near-green light from the cave opening, his blood looks black. There's soot rubbed into his face. His skin is damp with sweat. She doesn't know what to say but his name, over and over, as her hands hover uselessly. "Percy."

He leans forward until his forehead rests against hers. "I found your dagger. Fell in with us. Looks like the Gods are looking out for us, after all."

And he laughs.

Annabeth pries the dagger from his hands and drops it, wraps him in her arms. His laughter turns to broken sobs, and he holds her around the waist, his face tucked into her neck. _My fault, _Annabeth thinks as his shoulders shake, as his hands grip at her shirt. _You should've let me go, _she wants to tell him, because he could've been fine. Nico and Hazel could've pulled him to the surface. He would've boarded the _Argo II _with them, sailed to New York, allied the Greeks and the Romans. He would've figured out how to fix things. He didn't need her.

_Why didn't you just let me go?_

She holds him until he stills. It doesn't take too long. She keeps her hands at his waist as he pulls away, wiping at his face, the soot and sweat and tears smearing around. His eyes, though bloodshot and near hidden with dirt, are still clear as the sea. "Don't," he says.

"What?"

"Don't tell me I should've dropped you." He picks up her dagger and presses it into her palm. Riptide is in his hand a second later, gleaming in the low light. Percy struggles to his feet. He reaches out for her. "Come on."

And he looks so assured, now—so confident in her, so unfazed by the impossible task set before them. She places her hand in his and he helps her stand, mindful of her bubble-wrapped ankle, careful of his mangled arm.

Tartarus.

"Okay," Annabeth says, breathing deep, and she takes her first steps out of the cave and into the thick, hazy light of their newest quest.


End file.
